


If The Tiara Fits

by SilverRaven849



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23859949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverRaven849/pseuds/SilverRaven849
Summary: "A modern princess!"One night, at the stroke of midnight, a young woman met the prince. The prince and the young woman soon fell in love, but soon she would learn that not all was well behind palace gates...Guinevere Wilson has always felt out of place among her upper-class friends, and Prince Arthur has never felt out of place. Told through flashbacks and prose, this is the modern story of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere.
Relationships: Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	If The Tiara Fits

**::WINTER 2017:: ******

When I was younger, I thought that the most romantic thing in the world was those cutaway scenes in When Harry Met Sally of those couples sitting on the couch and telling their love story. Now I am sitting on my own couch, about to tell my own love story, and I can’t help but wryly think of how much editing each of those couples must have put into those stories. Any fight, and any second thought or uncertainty, must have been tidied away to create the perfect story, making their happy ending seem inevitable from the start. 

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Looking at my fiancé, who is speaking to the interviewers, I can’t help but think that our story was anything but inevitable. So many people thought that I was too common, or if they were feeling particularly racist, too exotic to marry Arthur. Some people were ruder about my heritage, and that hurt. But I look down at the ruby target ring on the third finger of my left hand, and smile. My heart swells, and I know that we’re going to be okay. I’m going to be Queen. Although more importantly, I’m going to be Arthur’s wife. 

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My phone buzzes, and I reach into the pocket of my coat to look at it. It’s a message from Merlin, who has no doubt kept his eyes peeled to the news to make sure that his perfectly planned photocall has been received well by the British public. Merlin’s attached a photo to his text, a photo taken in the Throne Room in Buckingham Palace where we had our engagement photocall. It was supposed to be in the Buckingham Palace gardens, but the problem with trying to do anything outside in London in November is that it is not likely to end well. Our staff hurriedly relocated the press inside, and I shed my navy blue belted wool coat for my maroon sheath-dress that I wore underneath. I was proud that I had been so firm in my selection, and looking at the photo Merlin sent, I was happy to see that the side pleats were as flattering as I’d guessed they would be. With the sleek, regal touch of my chignon, I supposed that I looked rather regal, and perhaps like an undoubted Queen. 

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BUCKINGHAM PALACE TWITTER ACCOUNT IS BLOWING UP. GOOD RESPONSE SO FAR! 

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I smiled at my Press Officer’s text. 

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YOU ARE A GODSEND! I typed, and I meant every word. DON’T KNOW HOW I’D MANAGE WITHOUT YOU. 

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“Guinevere,” I looked up into Arthur’s smiling face. “Are you ready to begin?” 

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I smiled and slid my phone out of sight at my feet. “I’m ready.” 

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**::WINTER 2015:: ******

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When I first met Arthur, about two years ago to the day, he was not His Majesty The King. He was instead, the newly created Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, and Duke of Rothesay. At the time, I wasn’t particularly sure what the big deal was—Arthur had always been known as His Royal Highness Prince Arthur of Wales, hadn’t he? Later, I would learn that there was a very important distinction between being Arthur, Prince of Wales and Prince Arthur of Wales. The former was a title held in his own right as heir apparent to the throne, and the latter was a reference to his father’s territorial designation. In any case, up until that point Arthur had been a rich layabout prince, who got to throw about his father’s flashy title whenever he pleased. The palace was insisting that Arthur, Prince of Wales would be different to his counterpart, and Arthur was having none of it. 

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The first time I saw Arthur was in a flashy club in Chelsea. I was out for the night with my friend Margaret, who I had known from school. Receiving a full scholarship had seen me thrown out of the state school system at age eleven, and into the independent school system at George House School for Girls, an elite boarding school that even boasted royal alumni. I had been horribly out of my league for the first term, until Margaret (the daughter of a duke) had arrived. Flashy, open and vibrant, we had been assigned as roommates beginning in the spring term and had been inseparable ever since. Margaret had gotten engaged the weekend before, and this was the first time we had to celebrate. 

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“Don’t worry darling!” She said, reaching for the champagne and unsteadily topping up our glasses. “You don’t have to pay for a thing, Pongo has given me an open tab for tonight!” Pongo was of course Henry Lovell, Viscount Lovell and the future Earl of Danby. Despite well over fifteen years socialising with the upper crust of British society, I could never quite bring myself to use a Sloane nickname unironically. Margaret, affectionately known as Tottie by her family and friends, had never seen any problem with them. As she poured, I looked at her diamond ring enviously. She caught me staring and giggled. 

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“It’s amazing, isn’t it? Really, Pongo is such a darling. I’m so lucky that I found him. It’s such a fairytale really. Imagine when I tell our children that we met at a ball of all places.”  
I nodded, and sipped my champagne, suddenly feeling like going home, and feeling even guiltier than that when I realised how I felt in the first place. Although Margaret was particularly drunk that night, she caught my frown before I could wipe it away and hide it behind my cool and sophisticated Society face. 

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“Oh, Gwen I’m so silly!” She said, putting her glass down and scooting closer to me. “You must hate me so!” 

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At that point, Anita and Claudia returned from the ladies’ room and overheard Margaret’s last few words. Claudia frowned as she sat down and reached for her own glass. “Why would Gwen hate you, Tottie?”

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“Because,” Margaret emphasised, and I tried not to wince. “She and Lancelot Pierce broke up six months ago, and she hasn’t found anyone who could hold a handle even close to him!” 

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Claudia glanced at me, sharing my embarrassment. It made sense that Margaret would bring up Lancelot. She had always hated him, after all, even though she did admit that his family was fabulously wealthy, and her valuing of boyfriends was based on their wealth, personality aside. But it wasn’t easy being a ‘regular’ girlfriend trying to fit into a family of upper-class toffs who liked nothing about me, from my Northern background to the colour of my skin. True, my own family lived comfortably up in York and owned a four-bedroom terraced house in the Fulford area of the city. But according to Mrs. Pierce, who was some kind of heiress to something, I might as well have been raised in a barn. That my parents were divorced, and I had been raised by my father, only soured her impression of me further. 

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Claudia smiled gently at Margaret. “I’d be very surprised if Gwen wants to talk about him at all.” She said warmly, but a firm undertone colouring her voice. 

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“Why not?” Margaret babbled, “He was only the richest man she’ll ever be able to land—”

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A commotion at the entrance to the club stopped her words in their tracks. I glanced over to see groups of people giving one group a wide berth, and when I looked closer, I noticed that this berth was accompanied by awed glances. I frowned; usually this kind of reaction meant that a celebrity had entered the club, but in the dim lighting I didn’t recognise any of the four men who had entered as a Hollywood favourite. The two men who followed the group were dressed in dark slacks and shirts and had the look of a security team you did not want to mess with. It had to be someone important. 

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I eyed the four men curiously. It was fine to stare openly, everyone else was. One of them had longer hair, it was curly and just brushed the edges of his bespoke sports jacket. The other had dark hair that was expertly slicked back, and a face that said he had never been turned down by a woman. The third man was bulky—I supposed he must be the celebrity, a rugby player or something, and then my attention turned to the fourth man. 

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The first time I saw Arthur, he was leaning across the bar, saying something to the bartender. I observed him in profile, and noted his strong jaw, how his nose was just slightly too big for his face, and wryly wondered how much work had gone into making his hair looked just tousled enough. I knew suddenly that I recognised him from somewhere and looked at my friends to voice the thought.

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“Holy shit.” Anita said, putting her drink down. “That’s Prince Arthur!”

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“Prince Arthur?” Margaret said, perking up and staring around the club. 

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“Yes, Prince Arthur.” Anita said irritably. “I attended his investiture last month. His grandfather died last year; his father was crowned six months ago. He’s the fucking heir to the fucking throne?”

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Margaret shot her an annoyed glance. “I know who Prince Arthur is, dear.” She said coolly. “I can’t believe he’s actually here. Did you say you knew him?” 

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Anita shook her head. “Only a little, I don’t think he’d recognise me. My father was at Eton at the same time as King Uther, but I don’t think they were close. We’re only invited to larger scale things—we’re hardly allowed in the royal box at Wimbledon or at the Royal Ascot.”

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Margaret’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s enough to say hello!” She eyed the group with more scrutiny than Sherlock Holmes. “Oh there’s Percy Coldewell. He knew Pongo through the Conservative Society at Cambridge. I met him at a cocktail party last year…” 

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“Why does it matter?” I said, “They’re here for a good night. We shouldn’t disturb them.” I’d recently read a story about Arthur’s half-sister Princess Morgana being spotted in a Starbucks on King’s Road. Rather than being left alone, the Starbucks patron who had spotted her had approached her and asked for a selfie of all things. The princess had politely declined, but it irked me. Surely it would have been more respectful to spot her, smile, and leave the poor woman to drink her coffee and scroll through Instagram in peace.  
In short, I was against bothering royalty. Very against it. 

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“Oh nonsense.” Margaret said, getting up. Usually Margaret would have more reserves than this, but the expensive champagne and the expensive diamond on her finger had made her bold. 

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None of us could stop her, so we watched as she went over, touching Percy Coldewell on the arm. Percy looked confused at first, but mercifully an expression of vague recognition passed over his face. He shook her hand warmly and introduced her to his friends. I could tell that for a moment, the group were trying to pull away from Margaret, but she held firm. Within minutes she had shepherded the group over to where we sat, and Claudia nudged me to make room on the couch. 

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“Hello everyone!” Margaret said brightly. She motioned to the burly man to her right. “This is Percy Coldewell, and his friends Gwaine Black, Leon MacDuff and Arth…” She trailed off. Even when intoxicated, Margaret’s impeccable breeding would not let her introduce The Prince of Wales simply as “Arthur.” 

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The last of the group smiled at the three of us women. “Mr. Arthur Pendragon at your service.” 

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Gwaine, the dark one with slicked back hair, snorted. “You’ve never been at anyone’s service, old boy.” He turned to us. “He’s trying—and failing—to be subtle. May I present to you, His Royal Highness Prince Arthur, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, Earl of Chester, Duke of Rothesay, Duke of Cornwall… did I say that one twice?” He paused and tried to remember if he had. “Anyway, ladies. My friend here is the prince you’ve all certainly read about in Hello and The Mirror. We would be terribly grateful if you did not call the paparazzi on us again, because I am not certain that my father would bail me out as quickly if I punched another cameraman.” 

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I suddenly remembered the story from a few years before. A cameraman had been ruthless, refusing to allow Prince Arthur and his friends to get into their car. Arthur’s companion at the time—apparently the man sitting before me—had punched him. When I’d read the story, I think he deserved it. 

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Margaret laughed. “We shouldn’t do any such thing! Anyway, it is so rude of me not to introduce my friends. This is Lady Claudia Pennyworth, and Miss. Anita Farrington, and Miss. Guinevere Wilson. A relation of the Prime Minister Harold Wilson, of course.”

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I flushed, “There is no relation.” I said quickly. “I’m just Guinevere Wilson.”

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“Oh pish posh. If you hadn’t told them, they would never know!” Margaret laughed gaily. “Come gentlemen, I must call for another bottle of champagne. We’re celebrating my engagement!” 

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I noticed then that Prince Arthur was looking at me; no, not looking, he was staring at me. I tugged self-consciously at my Zara dress. It wasn’t an ugly dress by any stretch of the imagination, but it had very little on the Chanel dress that I knew Margaret wore. After a moment, I looked away and pretended not to have noticed Prince Arthur’s stare. When I chanced a look at him again, he was looking away, listening to his friend. 

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I had seen many photos of Prince Arthur. With his blonde hair, blue eyes, muscled frame, and sharp jawline, he could certainly give any fairytale prince a run for their money. But photos of Arthur could not do justice to how beautiful he truly was. My eyes were drawn to his hands, and I marvelled at their size and manliness. It was ridiculous, but I could not stop thinking of how beautifully shaped they were. They were hands that belonged at a piano or holding a sceptre. I thought of the old paintings of kings and wondered why I had not spent more time inspecting their hands. The artist would have had to make a study of them, and perhaps they were an artwork of their own. I made a mental note to go to the portrait gallery during my lunch hour. 

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******::WINTER 2017:: ******** **

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The interviewer was from the BBC. He was young, with a Northern Irish accent and a swipe of dark hair. I knew that Merlin had briefed him on what was and was not okay to ask us, but I still felt apprehensive. I had never given an interview before. This could easily set the tone of my royal life. What if I screwed it up? I calmed myself down, remembering that it was recorded, and would be aired that evening after being edited down to twenty minutes. Arthur had promised me that they would edit out any mistakes I made, or any sentences that I didn’t want aired to the nation of sixty-six million people. 

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“We’re rolling.” The cameraman said, and the interviewer smiled. He would not appear on camera but would be heard behind it. The camera itself was focused on the ornate couch where we sat. I tried hard to remember not to shift in my seat. 

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“Your Majesty, Miss. Wilson, thank you for speaking to us today, and a huge congratulations from all of us.” 

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Arthur smiled, “Thank you very much, we are extremely excited to finally get to share this news with the country.”

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“And we are very excited to hear it!” The interviewer looked down at his notes. “Now, I’m certain that the public want to know—how long have you been engaged? When did it happen?”

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“We haven’t been engaged for very long,” Arthur answered. “Although I was very certain that I wanted to marry her from the night we met.” 

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I hoped I wasn’t blushing. “He does often insist that he knew at once, but if he did, he waited until just last month to propose. We were up north visiting my family and had decided to go even further north from there to—to Balmoral. It was a lovely weekend, although it is frosty in that part of the country this time of year.”

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“And how did he propose, ma’am? Did he get on one knee?”

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“It was on a walk in the countryside,” I explained, “And the ground was cold, and awfully unforgiving for that stance.” I chanced a glance at Arthur as I said this and saw his face twitch just slightly as his public expression threatened to slip. In fact, the ground had been unforgiving when Arthur had proposed. He had stuck his wellington boot into a patch of mud and gone sprawling sideways. He had been unhurt but covered in mud when he presented me with the ring—and I could not have asked for a better proposal. “But he did his very best to fight the elements.” 

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“It was supposed to be a very romantic proposal, but I’m quite afraid that all she will remember is the rain and cold from the day!” Arthur said, his eyes dancing. “But I am very grateful that she said yes, regardless.”

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“And this is how long after the two of you met? Two years? How did you meet? Do you mind telling us about that?”

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“We met about two years ago, one evening in Mayfair, through friends. One friend of hers was recently engaged and invited my party over to join them, and it went from there.”

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Well, I thought, that’s kind of true.

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**********::WINTER 2015:: ******** ** ** **

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An hour or so later, Claudia knelt next to the gilded toilet, holding back Margaret’s hair as she was violently sick. I knocked on the stall door. “It’s Gwen,” I said softly, “I brought water.” 

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A moment, and the door opened. Claudia smiled gratefully at me and took the water. “I suppose she wouldn’t be able to keep it down.” She frowned at Margaret, who was moaning softly, and nuzzling the toilet seat like it was a friendly kitten. I grimaced. “Should we call an ambulance?” 

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“No, no,” I said, “Let’s just get her home. Maybe let Harry know that she’s going to be sleeping at one of ours’ tonight.” Harry was what most people called ‘Pongo,’ and even though I was in his inner circle, I still preferred to use it. Claudia did, too. 

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Claudia chewed her lip. “I suppose so. Do you know his number?” 

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“Afraid not. It must be on Margaret’s phone, though.” 

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Claudia nodded, and knelt to Margaret’s side. “Margaret, honey—honey, what’s your password for your phone?”

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As drunk as she was, Margaret laughed. “I’m not telling you,” She slurred, “You’ll post to Facestagram… Instabook…” She trailed off, and then at Anita’s prompting, continued. “You’ll post about how DRUNK I am.” 

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“No we won’t,” Claudia said firmly. “We’re just going to tell Harry that you’re coming to stay with one of us tonight.”

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“Nooo,” Margaret said, “Pongo doesn’t like it when I get so drunk—he’ll want me to stop drinking.”

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It was useless to tell Margaret that she had stopped drinking. I sighed, and Claudia looked at me with maternal eyes. “You need to sleep more, Gwen.” She said, turning to rub Margaret’s back when she retched again. “It’s a shame that Lancelot was brought up at all. And you do know it’s not about how much money a man has, right?”

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“Of course,” I smiled. “But you have enough to worry about right now. What should we do? If we can’t get into her phone, we can’t call Harry.”

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“Oh, I’ll sort it out on Facebook when I get home. I know he doesn’t check his messages often, but Harry has always struck me as the daft sort who leaves his phone number on ‘Public’ on his profile. Let’s just get Margaret to mine—can you see where Anita is?” 

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I nodded and left the ladies’ toilets. Upstairs, Anita had vanished, and Arthur’s party had also shrunk by one. Percy looked up when I approached and stood to greet me. Arthur remained sitting, lounging with a whiskey glass in one hand. 

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“How’s she doing?” Percy asked. “Are they okay?”

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“They’re fine,” I assured him. “I think Margaret just needs to go home. I was going to ask a doorman to hail us a cab.” 

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“That won’t be necessary.” Percy said immediately. “My town car is waiting just outside, and I’d be happy to see them safely home, if you would allow me.” 

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Leon, who sat beside Arthur, stood up. “I think I’ll go with you. It’s gone past two in the morning.” He looked at Arthur, “Do you mind us bowing out and leaving you alone?”

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Arthur smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m never alone, darling. Never, ever, ever… not with those two staring at me all the time.” He nodded at the security guards who stood in the corner, watching the table carefully. “Besides, I have Miss. Watson to keep me company, unless she’s going to leave me, too?” 

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“No, I could use another drink.” I sat down again, thinking I should go and tell Claudia of the plan. Instead, I realised that the whole evening had left me rather depressed, in that horrible self-pitying ways that leaves you equal parts lonely and ashamed. There were worse things than being single, I told myself. But tonight the fact was not enough to soothe my woes. The truth was, I didn’t want to go home to my empty flat near Warwick Avenue. I didn’t want to spend the money to get a cab, and I didn’t want to spend time on the bus this late at night alone. I wanted someone to go home with, to eat a kebab with and giggle over the night with, before going to bed. “I suppose I’ll go and let Claudia know the plan, first.” 

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“No, don’t worry—I’m happy to go down. Where are they?” 

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“Er—the ladies’ toilet, actually.” 

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Percy was not daunted. He looked at Arthur. “If I get photographed in the ladies’ loo, I want at least half of the money that The Sun pays to publish it.” 

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Arthur chuckled, and watched Percy head down the stairs. I looked at the empty spaces where Gwaine and Anita had been when Margaret had first announced that she was feeling quite sick. “Where did those two get off to?”

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“Them?” Leon looked awkward. “Oh, uh, Gwaine saw your friend home.” 

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“To her home or his?” Arthur asked, a chuckle on his beautiful face. “Anyway, I’m happy for him. He needed to sink himself into something after the week had gone.”

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Leon knocked Arthur’s shoulder. “Don’t be so coarse, Arthur.” 

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“It was a joke, it was a joke…” Arthur said mildly, and then his fantastically blue eyes focused on me. “Leon worries that everything I say is going to end up in the press. He’s been worried ever since my cousin, Prince John of York, got caught saying some terribly racist things when he was stationed in the Middle East. It was quite a scandal.” 

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I nodded, not quite sure that Prince Arthur’s inner beauty matched his outer beauty. “I read about that in The Times. It was quite an ugly thing to say.”

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“It was.” Arthur leaned back. “And the fact that John’s a grade-A moron with shit for brains doesn’t excuse it one bit. But I don’t say things that are too terrible, and I don’t say them where I can be overheard or recorded.”

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“Excuse me,” I said, fixing him with the sternest gaze I could manage. “I don’t really like the thought of your friend getting to ‘sink into’ anything. If you think that Anita is going to be used by your friend, I have quite a mind to ring her right now and tell her to leave. It’s disgusting that you thought to speak of her that way.”

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Arthur tilted his head and looked at me, his eyes registering surprise. It occurred to me that it was very likely that no other woman had ever spoken to him like this. They took his comments with a giggle, and a sinking heart because well, he was the prince  
.  
I couldn’t tell you exactly why I decided to assert myself, and my gender, against Arthur’s comment. I wasn’t trying to be unlike other girls or trying to make myself stand out. I think it was because I was drunk, so it gave me courage, and after an evening of hearing Margaret talk about Pongo and her future titles, I was sick of the rich and mighty and so I would have lashed out at any of them, given the chance. It just so happened that the chance arrived when I was speaking to the future King of England. 

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Arthur frowned, his face sobering. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” He said slowly. “To be honest, I think Gwaine was quite taken by her. I’ll tell you the truth, Gwaine isn’t one to have long relationships, but he’s not going to sneak out while she’s in the shower.” He frowned. “That sounded bad.”

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“It didn’t sound great,” I agreed, and sighed. “But I’m not going to stop Anita, so long as she’s not in any danger.”

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“She isn’t.” Leon said earnestly, and I realised that he hadn’t been drinking at all that night. “Like Arthur says, Gwaine is a joker, but he has a good heart. You have my word.” 

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I smiled at him. “So it’s settled, then.” 

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Leon smiled at me, and for a moment, I felt a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. 

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Oh no. I remembered thinking. Not again

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End file.
